The Ruins of Eldercastle stood silent under the weight of centuries, their jagged outlines cutting into the night sky like the broken teeth of some ancient beast. The moon hung low, its silvery light spilling over the crumbling stones and casting long, ghostly shadows across the overgrown pathways. It was a place where time seemed to have forgotten itself, where the past lingered like a whisper, and the present felt as fragile as a dream.

Into this stillness stepped Lysander.

His movements were deliberate, each step a study in grace, as though he were not merely walking but weaving himself into the fabric of the night. His raven-black hair caught the breeze, strands of it lifting and falling like the wings of a restless crow. The moonlight kissed his pale skin, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the faint shimmer of his golden-emerald eyes. He was a figure of contrasts—dark and light, stillness and motion, timelessness and urgency.

The clearing was bathed in an otherworldly glow, the ruins rising around him like the bones of a forgotten giant. Lysander paused at the edge of the clearing, his gaze sweeping over the scene before him. The air was thick with the scent of wild roses, their perfume mingling with the earthy dampness of the stones. It was a scent that stirred something deep within him, a memory he could not quite grasp but one that tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the gravel-strewn path. The ruins seemed to breathe around him, their ancient stones whispering secrets only he could hear. His fingers brushed against a moss-covered wall, the cool, damp texture grounding him in the moment. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation anchor him as his thoughts began to drift.

Lysander’s mind was a labyrinth, a maze of memories that stretched back further than most could fathom. He had walked this earth for centuries, his immortal existence both a gift and a curse. The weight of it pressed down on him now, as it often did in moments like these. He thought of the faces he had known, the lives he had touched, and the ones he had lost. They were all gone now, reduced to dust and echoes, while he remained.

He remembered the laughter of a child, the warmth of a lover’s touch, the sound of a friend’s voice. These memories were like shards of glass, beautiful but sharp, cutting into him whenever he dared to hold them too close. He had learned to keep them at a distance, to wrap himself in solitude as though it were a cloak. But even the thickest cloak could not keep out the cold forever.

“Why do you linger here?” he murmured to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you searching for?”

The ruins offered no answer, only the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Lysander sighed and continued his walk, his steps carrying him deeper into the heart of the ruins. The moonlight filtered through the crumbling arches, casting elongated shadows that danced around him like silent companions. He felt a strange kinship with those shadows, fleeting and insubstantial as they were. They, too, were bound to the light, just as he was bound to this endless existence.



As he wandered, Lysander’s thoughts turned to the concept of immortality. It was a double-edged sword, a gift that had become a burden. He had seen empires rise and fall, had witnessed the birth and death of stars. He had walked among mortals, sharing in their joys and sorrows, only to watch them fade away like smoke on the wind. And yet, for all his years, he had never found what he truly sought.

Connection.

The word echoed in his mind, a quiet but insistent refrain. It was what he craved, what he feared, what he could not seem to grasp. To connect with another being, to truly be seen and understood—it was a risk he had not dared to take in centuries. The thought of it filled him with both excitement and dread, a delicate balance that left him restless and unsettled.

His steps quickened, as though driven by some unseen force. The ruins seemed to shift around him, the shadows deepening and the light growing brighter. He paused at a particular spot, where the moonlight illuminated a fragment of stained glass embedded in the ground. The colours danced across the stones, casting rainbow patterns that seemed to pulse with life. Lysander knelt, his fingers tracing the edges of the glass.

For a moment, he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps there was still beauty in this world, still light to be found even in the darkest corners. Perhaps he did not have to be alone.

The sound of a nearby stream reached his ears, a gentle tinkling that seemed to weave itself into the fabric of the night. Lysander rose and followed the sound, his movements fluid and purposeful. The overgrown courtyards gave way to a narrow path that led to the edge of the ruins. There, he stopped, his gaze fixed on the forest beyond.

The trees stretched out before him, their branches swaying in the breeze. The moonlight bathed the landscape in a soft, ethereal glow, and for the first time in centuries, Lysander felt a flicker of something he had long thought lost.

Determination.

He stood at the precipice, his golden-emerald eyes reflecting the light of the moon. The restlessness within him was no longer a burden but a challenge, an opportunity. He had spent centuries wandering in the shadows, but now he felt the pull of something greater, something that called to him from beyond the ruins.

“Perhaps it is time,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “Perhaps it is time to seek what I have been too afraid to find.”

With that, he stepped forward, leaving the ruins behind. The forest welcomed him, its shadows deepening as he disappeared into the trees.